


Van Goghing Slightly Mad

by Xanoka



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art Gallery AU, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Crushes, Goya, Insecure Bucky, M/M, Modern Art, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Security Guard Bucky, Stucky - Freeform, Swearing, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, Writing Prompt, art gallery, flirty steve, meet cute, no powers au, shy bucky, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 17:56:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8170663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanoka/pseuds/Xanoka
Summary: Damage control.  Now would be the perfect time for damage control. 

“I’m sorry for calling your painting porn!”
   Well shit. 
 
Bucky is a Security Guard at a fancy art gallery and is absolutely not crushing on the Tiny Blonde Guy who frequents the Modern Art section. Nope.  Not at all. 
Written for the prompt "All the other naked pictures are actually next door."





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a shameless artist pun and has nothing to do with anything. I am (not) sorry. This is my first (finished!) attempt at a Captain America fanfiction (modern AU sort-of Shrinkyclinks. Go figure.) so any feedback would be much appreciated! :)

 

It’s not a bad job, is the thing. 

Sure, it can be boring, standing around all day, watching tourists and college kids hustle past, with the odd screaming kid thrown into the mix for fun.  And listening to wanna-be intellectuals talking down to him like he’s a moron just because he’s Security gets old pretty fast.

_Yes_ , _I’ve heard of Da Vinci.  Asshole._

Art was never really his thing, but his Ma didn’t raise an idiot.  He’s got culture. 

He really appreciated those Ghibli movies Nat forced him to watch.  He reads. 

And he _likes_ looking at most of the paintings in the gallery.  Just not all damn day.

But he can’t complain.  He needed this job, and they were willing to look past the prosthetic and bucketloads of therapy and take him on ( _“Gotta support the vets!”_ ).  Not many places would so that, right? 

_Starbucks?  Maybe?_

It’s a good job.

It kind of makes him hate it a little bit.

But it has its perks. 

Like the discount at the overpriced café and shop.  ( _Ha ha, tourist_ suckers.)

And the non-asshole patrons.

Like Tiny Blonde Guy.  He comes round the gallery a lot, especially the Modern Art section.  (Bucky may or may not have aggressively negotiated a shift swap with Keith to get MA today.)  And here he is, absorbed in a painting in the temporary exhibit.  The very exhibit that Bucky is currently (completely coincidentally) guarding. 

It’s a large canvas and Tiny Blonde Guy can’t be more than five five, so it dwarfs him.  He’s craning his neck to take the whole thing in.

Bucky can’t blame him. 

It’s an eyeful, an abstract nude of a woman, all soft swirls and whirls of colour. 

There are smaller sketches and some other pieces dotted around the room, but _Peggy_ is the centrepiece, the winner of some competition or other.

Bucky knows her well.  He’s spent literally all day staring at her.  So he knows if TBG backed up three paces to the left and back he’d have a much better angle to appreciate the piece in all its naked glory.

As he watches, the guy takes out his phone, and the heavens open as inspiration strikes.

“Excuse me, sir?”

TBG’s head whips round, (blue!) eyes wide, like he’d forgotten Bucky was there.  People usually do. 

_You can do this_.

“I’d like to remind you that flash photography is not permitted in this gallery.”

Fortunately, the guy smiles. 

(It’s unbelievable the number of entitled assholes get pissy about that one simple rule.  It boggles the mind.)

“OK, no problem.  I’m just taking a picture for my Mom.”

_Great!  A conversation opening.  Make it good._

“She like art?”

_Lame, Buck.  So lame._

But TBG just smiles even wider.  It makes his eyes crinkle up a little and he has dimples and it’s heart-warming, like watching a kitten sneeze.  Then he laughs wryly, ducking his head, and it’s like puppies cuddling up in a basket.

“Yeah.  She loves this artist.”  He says it like it’s a joke, and Bucky has no idea, but he smiles anyway.

“He’s local.  The artist,” Bucky tells him, then immediately kicks himself, because _of course_ this guy knows that.  He’s been in the room for a good half an hour, reading all the little placards and everything. 

So he rushes on to save face, and that’s his only excuse for what happens next.

“If she likes _Peggy_ over there, you should check out the other nudes.”  _Oh my God._ “Though, now I think of it, all the other naked pictures are actually next door. Uh, across the courtyard, I mean.”  _So much worse._

TBG’s forehead furrows, like he’s not sure which part of that speech he wants to respond to first.  The pause as he decides is torture.

“In the annex?  I heard you guys have a Goya there.”

_Okay.  Good.  Back to business.  Facts._

“Yeah!  I mean, yes.  It’s on loan.  To our Baroque collection.”

TBG nods.  “Thanks, I’ll check it out.  I love his work.”

Since Bucky’s knowledge of Goya is limited to the painting he stared at for five hours last Thursday, he only nods and smiles vaguely.

“You really should.”

TBG grins back, apparently delighted to have found a fellow Goya enthusiast ( _lies!_ ).  Bucky would feel guilty, but he’s immediately distracted by a minor miracle.

“Oh, I’m Steve, by the way.  Steve Rogers.”  TBG (Steve!) is holding out his hand, and as he shakes it Bucky takes a second to thank all that is holy (Picasso, Degas, Monet) that the arm he just _had_ to lose was his left.

“James Barnes.”

Steve’s grip is warm and firm.  Bucky in no way gets butterflies.

“Great to meet you, James.  I think I’ve seen you round here a lot, right?  In these galleries?  You like modern art?”

_I like you._

“Oh, yeah, sure.  I mean, I’m no expert or nothin’, but I like it.”  Why does his accent always get broader when he’s nervous?  “The colours, y’know, and the shapes.  Like Peg here,” he inclines his head at the painting.  “I like how it’s soft, see?  Real warm.  Feels… intimate, I guess.”

He stumbles to a stop and purses his lips before more words rattle out.  When was the last time he said so much to a stranger in one go?  His therapist would be so proud.

Not that Bucky has time to think of his therapist.  Steve is beaming at him, like he’s just delivered his first born.

“Thanks!  I’ll tell Peggy you said that.  She’ll be thrilled.”

And it’s like being struck by lightning. 

Steve Rogers.  _Of_ _course_. 

It’s not like he hasn’t been staring at that painting (and the placard attached to it) for an entire day.

Fuck. 

_You called his painting a “naked picture.”  You basically called Steve ‘TBG’ Roger’s prize-winning artwork porn.  To his face._

Fuck.  Fuck.

_Just be cool._

“Oh, fuck.  You’re the artist.”

_Goddammit._

Steve-fucking-prize-winning-Rogers continues to smile, looking a little confused, as if this fact had already been established.

“Yes?  Didn’t you know that?  I was around here a lot while _Peggy_ was being installed.”

Bucky shakes his head minutely and stares, his mind a sad, blank canvas devoid of intelligent comment or witty comeback.

_Damage control.  Now would be the perfect time for damage control._

“I’m sorry for calling your painting porn!”

_Well shit_.

Steve stares at him for a second, then bursts out laughing.  Bucky can only stand by helplessly, determinedly pressing his hands into his thighs and pretending his face isn’t slowly turning red.

Eventually the hilarity subsides and Steve manages to speak again.

“That’s OK, James.  I didn’t, uh, notice?”  He snorts and shakes his head ruefully.  “Honestly, my work’s been called worse.  You should see some of my old fanart commisions.  NSFW.”

He actually winks.  James is entranced.  Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop his mouth from speaking without permission.

“I don’t know what that means.”

Steve grins.  For a guy with such big, wide baby blues, he looks positively devilish.  It’s amazing.

“I guess I’ll have to show you some time.”

_Yes!  Yes you should!_

“I still don’t know what you mean, but sure.”

_What the fuck, mouth?_

“Great!  How about I give you my number?  We could get coffee some time?”

Before his mouth can betray him again, Bucky whips out his phone and hastily prepares to input the new number.  As usual, it takes a few keyboard smashes to get to the relevant screen, by which time the sudden silence has had a chance to stretch good and tight.

_He’s looking at the arm.  He’s definitely looking at the arm._

His stomach dropping to his regulation boots, Bucky deliberately taps a few more keys pointlessly to delay the inevitable. 

It’s fine.  It’s totally fine.

It was stupid of him, getting carried away by TBG-kitten-sneezing-Rogers and his golden hair and his tiny waist and his supernova smile and his _fanart_ and his promises of _coffee_ in the first place. 

It’s fine.

There’ll probably be some awkward laughter, the obligatory questions about his service, then Steve-successful-artist-Rogers will continue on his merry way and they’ll never speak again.

_Business as usual._

Steeling himself, he looks up and Steve’s eyes are fixed on his face.  He smiles as soon as their eyes meet and rattles off his phone number, like he’s been just waiting for the opportunity.

Then he reaches out to squeeze Bucky’s (left!) wrist gently.

“Listen, I’ve gotta go.  But give me a call, OK?  When you’re free.”

With a last winsome smile, he glides away like a summer cloud, leaving Bucky feeling a little colder.

The next three hours drag, but finally he’s clocking out and shifting his backpack over his shoulder as he stands on the gallery steps and fingers his phone in his pocket.

He really should delete that number.  Nothing good will come of it.

He keyboard mashes his way to Steve’s contact details.

They stare back at him mockingly.

_Just do it.  Quick, like a band-aid._

He jabs decisively at the screen and holds his breath for a few beats.

“Hi,” he says.  “This is, uh, James Barnes.  From the gallery.”

“Hey,” Steve’s voice is warm in his ear, and Bucky’s smiling stupidly at nothing.  “I’m glad you called.”


End file.
